The Phoenix and the Templar
by Pippin Longstocking
Summary: Duncan had said she was a phoenix. She thought herself more a savage animal, rising from the embers to take the noble's place, and travelling in her disguised skin until the time for vengeance was right. She never expected being a boy would be easy, or that her quest would go exactly as planned. But then, she never thought these lunatics would stick with her until the end, either.
1. Chapter One

Because I've been playing _Dragon Age: Origins_ for the millionth time the last couple of days, I decided to crawl out of my cave and write some fanfiction about it. Mainly because the gameplay writes it for me and I'm a lazy ho.

Please forgive me if this is sloppy. I haven't written a damn thing in over eight months.

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**CHAPTER ONE**

_In Which Our Heroine Becomes Our Hero_

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She stared so hard into the fire that the smoke began to sting her eyes. Duncan watched closely as they began to shine with fresh tears, her face utterly still behind the flickering mask of firelight and shadows. He knew she wasn't crying; she hadn't cried once since escaping the castle, and he highly doubted she was going to give in at any point. At least, not while she was still in his presence. Not without a small push.

"Aurora." He said quietly, so as not to startle her from her reverie.

She tilted her head towards him, eyes slow to meet his. Her deep voice was hollow. "Yes?"

"I would not think less of you if you wept. I just wanted you to know that."

There was a long pause before she mumbled a lifeless "thank you" and looked back to the fire. Her arms tightening around her legs as she hugged them to her chest.

He sighed. "Have you thought about what must be done about your identity? Howe's men will no doubt realize you managed to escape after some time." Perhaps if he kept her talking, it might jar her back into reality. It almost seemed to work; her face took in some life as her back straightened.

"I've been thinking about that myself. I already know what I can do, but I fear I will be discovered regardless. I don't exactly blend in, do I?" A cynical smile struggled to take shape on her face. Duncan would not have seen it at all had there not been a sliver of a shadow forming at the corner of her lips. Her words guided his eyes to the long braid of hair that traveled over her shoulder and past her waist, coiled on the ground like a waiting serpent. It was a deep, startling shade of red, shimmering with gold and garnet as though challenging their campfire.

He fought back the grimace at the memory of their first meeting. After she'd caught him staring with no small amount of sass, he fumbled for the excuse that he was simply admiring how remarkable her hair was. Teryn Cousland then playfully tugged at the braid and joked that whenever the wind blew, he had to double take just to make sure her head had not caught fire. She'd swatted him off and wrinkled her nose in exasperation, forcefully demanding to know if he'd sent for her to send a message to her brother, or to poke fun at her in front of strangers. Arl Howe had laughed at that.

It stirred Duncan's stomach just thinking about it.

"You said that the king will be in Ostagar?" Her quiet words lured him back to the present.

He nodded. "I believe so. As will Teryn Loghain. Though, I imagine they would be more than willing to ally you-"

"I don't want either of them knowing who I am." She cut in sharply, her eyes blazing for the first time since yesterday.

"May I ask why?" He inquired slowly.

"If they knew I had made it out alive, I doubt it would be kept a secret for long. I can't have that happen. I need them to believe I didn't make it, that the Cousland name has been completely wiped out."

"What of your brother?"

Aurora snorted in disgust. "Howe is cocky. He will likely believe that with only my father's army to fight against the darkspawn, they will be completely massacred."

"But as I said before, Howe's men will know you have escaped once they see you are not among the slain."

"He is a powerful man. He obviously did this without fear of repercussion." She turned away from the fire to give him a long stare. "All the same, he isn't **that **powerful, and no one is that good a liar. He will know that I am missing, certainly, but he can't go asking for more than his own men to search for me for too long. This war is too important. No men can be spared. He might make them think he wants to look for me out of compassion, but that's unlikely."

"So you will hide among the Grey Wardens until his search turns cold?"

"That's really all I can do for now, at least until this war is over. When that time comes, Fergus and I will fight him together and reclaim Highever. He's no true claim to it, after all." Viciously she threw another stick into the fire, her eyes glittering dangerously in the haze of flame that was stirred.

He was quiet a moment longer than he probably should have been, weighing his words carefully. He wasn't without practice; that's all he ever seemed to be doing these days. "How do you know your brother lives? As you said, with only one army to fight, the darkspawn could easily overwhelm them."

She prodded the logs absentmindedly, contemplating this inquiry before the first genuine smile he'd seen since yesterday slowly spread across her face. "You don't know my brother."

Duncan sighed, finding it best not to argue that. He couldn't take that hope from her, not after everything she'd just seen.

"I'll go by a different name, obviously. Cut my hair and disguise myself as a boy, perhaps. Might not be enough to fool a clever man, but that's not exactly something we're dealing with, is it?" The red glow of the fire highlighted her scornful smirk, and for a moment he forgot he was speaking to the well-bred daughter of a nobleman. She looked savage. No less a beast than the creatures calling out softly in the black forest surrounding them. "We tell no one who I am. Not even the king. My true identity will be known only to you, and I mean **only **you. The less people who know, the easier this will be. Less of a risk of me being found out."

"The senior Grey Wardens?"

"**No one**_,_ Duncan. I mean it. The truth will reveal itself when I feel it should. You must promise me you will keep this our secret."

"Very well."

"**Promise **me."

He blinked in slight surprise at her fervor, feeling himself shrink under her stalwart gaze. "I promise, Aurora. I will tell no one of your identity."

She sighed, relieved, before launching right back into her plan. "I am to be known as a mere village boy. We can...I don't know, say I was arrested for stealing, and you conscripted me before they could sentence me to death."

"I suppose that's plausible. Certainly wouldn't be the first time the Grey Wardens spared their pity. We've never suffered from it." His tone was thick with implication, though it was easy to mistake this as a statement of pride, not foreshadowing.

Her brows lifted slightly, expression thoughtful. "I'd say so. Not exactly known for being nobodies, are you?"

"You'd be surprised at how many 'nobodies' we've turned into 'somebodies.'" He replied mildly.

"I'd say that was the case now, isn't it?" Her comment was light, delivered quietly and carelessly as she studied the flames once more. But Duncan was no fool; he heard the underlying insult onto herself. The shame and guilt of leaving her family to die alone. The bitter acknowledgment that she was once the proud daughter of a beloved noble, now a fugitive living in fear. She thought herself useless. Frail. A nobody.

Her stare became hollow, her body curling up once again, and it was seeing this that finally goaded Duncan into saying **something**. Of course, he wasn't expecting it to be in anger. Then again, he'd been wrong before.

"Let me make myself very clear, Aurora Cousland," he began, his voice made all the more harsh by how softly he spoke. "You are not, nor have you ever been, a nobody. You are one of the strongest I have ever seen, in fact, and it is for **this **reason I recruited you. It is not because **I** pitied you, or because **I** owed you and your family a favor. It is because **I **believed in you, and still do." At this she looked to him, the pain and sorrow he longed to see before finally emerging. It was potent, enough to nearly make him regret wanting to see it take shape, but he knew it was a step in the right direction. He needed her to feel again; pain was better than nothing. "And don't you dare go forcing me to regret this decision. Don't you dare give up on yourself now. Pull strength from your old life, don't bury it in self pity. What in the world would your mother and father think if they saw you sticking that dagger in your very own heart now? Think of your sister and nephew, and your brother. Do you really think they would allow you to do this to yourself?" The words were meant to sting, but he knew he'd gone too far. All the same, he kept the heat in his gaze. Kept telling himself she needed to hear this.

The anger that flashed across her face was immediately replaced by a reluctant acceptance. Duncan felt a swell of pride for her; she wasn't about to let herself give in to his remarks, she knew that they weren't blindly thrown out simply for the sake of hurting her. She knew better than that. She wasn't stupid.

"No. No, they wouldn't." She said after a long, painful silence, voice breaking as new tears, real tears, formed. She sighed, her head falling forward so that her hair might hide her eyes from him. Without much thought behind it, he caught her chin before it disappeared behind her arm and forced it up.

"Do not be afraid of yourself, Aurora. Do not be afraid of your future. You are a phoenix, and a fearsome one at that. Not a weak, fearful little girl." His hand came away, testing to see if his words were enough to keep her captivated. She stared into his blurred image, his reflection warping as her tears began to trickle through her lashes. "It was not a little girl who demanded her father take her with him into battle. It was not a little girl who stared down an armed man and warned him against commenting on her hair color again. And it was certainly not a little girl who fought her way through an entire castle of enemies, and earned her placed among the Grey Wardens." Gently he rested his hand upon her shoulder, watching as the tears released themselves into twin rivers on her cheeks. He could feel her quake beneath his fingers, which only made his hold on her tighten. Leaning in slightly, he offered the warmest smile he could. "You are something great. Believe that."

"I will." She whispered, her lower lip quivering before her teeth stilled it. She sucked in a breath, willing it to strengthen her voice. "I do."

Suddenly she was on her feet, standing over the fire with narrowed eyes and squared shoulders. The dagger on her belt sang as it was released from its sheath, rousing her sleeping mabari from his slumber, only to have him fall limp once he saw there was no danger.

She sliced through the root of her braid with a single swipe, letting it fall to the ground in a coiled pile before gathering the hair that framed her face. It fell away in a shower of garnet as she hacked away, the remnants carried away on the wind or burned up in their campfire. It left an acrid smell that hung heavy in the air, but neither she nor Duncan seemed to notice. By the time she was done, only an untidy mop that hung over her eyes remained. Duncan could not help the grin that gradually overshadowed his surprise; a large chunk where the roots swirled on her crown stuck up like the clock of a dandelion. He bit his lip to silence the chuckle that threatened to bubble up.

She released her breath, not even realizing she'd been holding it all the while. "I'm glad my hair was the only thing I inherited from my mother. Had I wound up with her curves as well, we might have a more difficult time." Glancing to him from the corner of her eye, she offered a grin in return. It was weak, faltering, but it was there.

"All the same, it might be wise of you to bind your chest. Never underestimate the wandering eyes of young soldiers. You might also want to work on the way you walk."

"The way I walk? What's wrong with the way I walk?" She defended, her voice still thick from before. She took her seat on the rock beside him and showed him her back, stripping off her armor piece by piece without care. Once done, she threw back a roll of cloth bandages she'd wrestled from her pack and grasped her wrists, resting them atop her head so her arms would not be an obstacle.

Catching the roll, Duncan sighed and took in the sight of her naked back. The skin was pale and smooth as it glowed in the moonlight, unmarred by the horrors of battle and war. He wasn't entirely sure if she was fortunate to have learned her martial training within the safety of her home, or incredibly disadvantaged. The sight to him was rare enough; he'd forgotten the last time he'd seen unscarred flesh. Slowly he began to wind the bandages around her chest, careful not to hamper her breathing. "Your hips sway when you walk, and your legs are held too close together. When a man walks, most of the focus is in his shoulders. Keep your feet further apart and let your arms swing more. Put more weight in your upper body."

"My hips will sway regardless. They're not just going to disappear like that, you know." She muttered dryly.

"Your thighs and hips can easily be hidden under enough layers and armor. It will weigh them down enough to not make them conspicuous."

"What about my...er, monthly arrival?" She murmured, the tips of her ears burning red. Duncan paused, unsure of what she spoke of before a light blush of his own crept along his cheeks.

"I...trust you to handle that as you always have. Just be more discreet about it." With that, he tucked the end of the bandage in place, and leaned away to study his work. "How does that feel? Can you breathe?"

She swung her arms and sat up straight, slouched forward, and sat up again, taking in a deep breath as she did so. "It feels no different than when I wear armor, really. Now, is there anything else I must know?" Glancing back at him, her grey eyes pierced him even through the darkness.

An eagerness to learn, a fortified will, and an understanding of sacrifice. He truly did know how to pick them.

He subdued his smugness before it might emerge. "When you sit, spread your legs and hunch over more. Yes, just like that. Rest your arms on your thighs or knees. You might want to start eating your meals like that as well, as though you were guarding it from wandering forks. With this group being the way it is around food, you might just pick that up as a long-standing habit. Keep your head up and your chin level with the ground, and puff out your chest when trying to make a point about something."

"Oh, believe me, that won't be a problem. Fergus and Father were always in a perpetual state of puffiness. I have plenty to go off of. " She replied through a wry smile, one that did not touch her eyes. Rather than comment, he merely continued.

"Your voice is deep enough, but still too light. Make it more rough, put more phlegm in it. Your speech is too refined, so make yourself less eloquent. Keep your words short and to the point; most men don't indulge in idle chatter, particularly warriors. You might also want to start getting into the habit of swearing. There's plenty of that within the camps."

She looked to him intently as he spoke, drinking in every word he said and storing it away to look back on later. When it came to the subject of swearing, however, he noticed that her expression was gradually beginning to morph into one of mischievous glee, as though she were a child preparing to do something naughty.

It worried him. A lot.

"What in the world is that smirk for?"

She chuckled softly, fingering the ragged ends of her shorn locks. "Sorry. It's just that swearing was absolutely against the rules in my home. Mother would scold my brother and father any time they did it. When she found out I was picking it up, she demanded that we put bits in a jar any time we cursed. Certain words called for more bits. At the end of the month, she would send the jar to our local Chantry. She always told us that if we were going to indulge in poor behavior, we might as well turn it into something useful."

He chuckled. "She sounded quite fierce, your mother."

"Oh, by the Maker, she was a brute when she wanted to be. Scarier than any darkspawn when she was mad enough. One time she actually managed to make a soldier cry when I was six. I'm not kidding. He'd been too rough with me in our martial practice, and I wound up with a nasty cut on my face." She traced a line along her jaw, indicating a jagged, silvery scar that could only be seen when shimmering in the firelight. "She gave him such an earful, he started to cry like a wee babe. It was glorious." The more she spoke, the more active her hands became, and the light in her eyes gradually returned. Duncan listened carefully, allowing a small grin.

She sighed through her laughter once she'd finished her tale, shaking her head and pulling her armor back into place. It became quiet once more, with only the crackling of their campfire, the fastening of her buckles, and the gentle snores of her dog filling the silence.

"She has earned her place alongside the Maker, Aurora." He said softly, earning him a thin smile in return. "They both have."

"I know. I know that, and that they're happier now. Still, I...I will miss them so much." She seemed to deflate under his gaze, and the light that had shone within her eyes was beginning to flicker out. He cleared his throat, searching for anything that might move them past this subject swiftly.

"Have you given any thought as to what you will call yourself?"

"I have. I think I shall go by the name Rory. It...was Fergus' nickname for me when Mother wasn't about. She didn't like it. Thought it was too boyish. I suppose she'll forgive me for using it now."

He nodded, prodding the embers into life. "It is a good name," he murmured, his eye catching a glimmer of gold near the base of the fire. It was her braid, now a dusty rope rather than the scorching mane he'd complimented yesterday. He scooped it up onto the end of the stick, letting it hang limp and flutter in the breeze. They eyed it quietly before she pinched it between her fingers, bringing it close to study it through narrowed eyes. It hung dead in her hand.

"I think so, too." She said softly, and dropped the last of her hair into the fire.


	2. Chapter Two

Holy cheese graters, Batman, you guys are awesome! I seriously didn't expect to get so much positive feedback, especially so soon. It makes me want to hug each and every one of you!

But since I can't, I'll throw this chapter at your faces instead.

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**CHAPTER TWO**

_In Which Alistair Makes an Ass Out of Himself_

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Alistair knew something was off the second he first laid eyes on him. Call him foolish, call him simple, call him whatever you wished, but some things simply couldn't avoid being seen. And in the case of Rory Ashton, 'off' was really the only word that could be used to describe the boy.

It didn't exactly help that their first encounter was probably the most painfully awkward experience he'd ever been forced to endure.

He had been sent by the Revered Mother to deliver a message to one of the senior mages that day, no doubt in a passive-aggressive attempt to make it known that the Chantry didn't appreciate their presence. Now standing before him, receiving an earful about his impertinence, he found he could hardly contain himself; the mage's scowl was practically beckoning his quips like a siren's song. After one last push, he finally stalked off in a huff, and Alistair was left to smirk in triumph before murmuring to no one in particular, "Well, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together..."

"I know exactly what you mean."

Talk about instant karma. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the unfamiliar voice fell upon his ears, and turned sharply with a yelp of surprise poised on his tongue. He managed to reduce it to a squeak, however, when he found that the source of his fright was merely a young man leaning against a pillar less than ten feet away, watching him with the intense gaze of a hungry wolf.

How in the world did he sneak up on him? His steps had to have been lighter than the air he was currently hyperventilating. But most importantly, why in the Maker's name was he _staring_ at him like that? It was...terribly distracting.

Were Alistair slightly less unnerved, he might have called those eyes beautiful; large and grey as a storm, fringed with thick lashes that made them appear even more perilous. But perhaps it was _because_ he was unnerved that he realized something was...terribly peculiar about that gaze. As it bore into him further, the chord of a memory was struck within him.

The faint images blurred and floated in a fragile mist, little more than a faded shape forming into that of a girl barely more than five. Of a long red braid. Of a chip-toothed grin. Of eyes like a storm.

But upon realizing he was admiring the eyes of a **man**, he quickly snapped himself out of it with a faint blush and a shake of his head. His focus returned to the boy, who looked at him curiously.

He was as pale as an Easter lily and about half an inch taller than himself, built with the delicate bones and slender frame of a youth not quite out of his teens. His untidy hair hung over his eyes and stuck up in random places, apparently defying gravity, and was such a brilliant shade of red that it created the illusion of flames each time the wind teased it. Cupid-bow lips, well-formed cheekbones, a delicately shaped nose, and a strong chin composed a face of aristocratic beauty, leaving Alistair to stare longer than was probably appreciated.

The templar had seen some notably handsome men in his Chantry days, and even a few scattered among his fellow Wardens. He thought nothing of it beyond superficial observation, of course, but **this** boy was different. **This** boy was hardly a boy at all. He was...well, if he had to go slapping a name on it, beautiful. In fact, had he not been built with such a tall, lanky figure, Alistair honestly could have mistaken him for a girl.

"Andraste's flaming knickers, you nearly startled the life out of me!" He finally spluttered, now attempting to regain his bearings. The blush on his cheeks deepened with his shame.

Beneath a set of bold, garnet brows, stormy eyes softened as the boy's stance loosened further. "A bit jumpy, are we?" He observed through a playful smirk, a vaguely familiar, melodic accent making itself known.

Alistair swallowed thickly. "Sorry. It's, uh...it's been an interesting day. I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?" He asked cautiously. The boy's lips twitched with slight amusement in response, encouraging him to close the distance between the two.

"Would that make your day worse?"

"No, I just like knowing my chances of being turned into a toad at any given moment." He trailed off, eyes lured by the intricate design on the youth's breastplate. The armor was well made, if fitting a bit poorly in places, and it was through careful study of it that Alistair realized why his accent sounded so foreign, yet so oddly familiar. The breastplate, much like the person wearing it, was from Highever.

The new recruit. He was from Highever.

Oh, sod it.

He found he'd stared too long again, for the boy's eyebrows knitted together in a suspicious frown. "You- You're the recruit from Highever! I should have recognized you right away." Alistair sighed, his face heating in embarrassment. "I apologize."

The guarded scowl turned into a quizzical one as his arms folded over his chest. "How could you recognize me? We've never met before."

"Oh, uh, Duncan sent word last night. To let us know you were coming so we could get everything ready." Alistair's tongue stalled as his brain fought to say something else. Something that didn't make him sound like some addled fool who couldn't keep his composure. "I'm sorry, my name is Alistair. As the, uh, junior member of the Order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining. But you...probably already knew that."

The recruit's wry grin returned as his back straightened. "I did, but there's no harm in checking. My name's Rory. Rory Ashton."

"Pleasure to meet you." Alistair said stiffly, still feeling the sting of his inappropriate thoughts and verbal incompetence. Without thinking, he thrust his hand forward for a handshake, wishing this meeting could at least be slightly less awkward. Alas, he seemed to be awfully talented at fueling that fire.

Rory stared blankly at his hand, slowly lifting his head to look at him with mildly affronted confusion. An uncomfortable five seconds passed before something seemed to click, and his smile became forced. "Pleasure's mine." He mumbled, placing his hand in the templar's as though it were a snake about to bite. It dropped back to his side before Alistair suddenly realized that what he'd just done was incredibly stupid.

People in Highever didn't shake hands; they bowed to each other, with their sword hand over their heart. It was an old habit of theirs, dating back from a time when people would run you through just as soon as they'd say hello. Hence, it was considered more respectful to show your empty hand, placed over your heart as a promise of sincerity. Shaking their hand was intrusive, reserved only for close friends and family.

In other words, rude.

Son of a tied down-

"Well," he said, sucking in a quick breath. "I imagine Duncan is eager to get things started. Shall we gather up your fellow recruits?"

"Sounds good," the youth replied tightly, and turned on his toe to start back down the stairs. Perhaps this was an action he performed too quickly, for he immediately lost his footing and stumbled back near the pillar. Without thinking, Alistair's hand shot forward to grasp his arm and steady him.

"Are you alright?" He inquired, hesitation clear in his tone. But upon seeing how close they stood, enough to see the pale flecks of blue in his eyes and the light dusting of freckles scattered across his nose, Alistair instantly retracted his hand as though it'd been burned.

Rory blinked up at him, standing straight and righting his armor before taking a precautionary step back. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He said slowly. "Just slipped is all."

"Right. Um... Right." Alistair mumbled back, feeling his ears burn. "Let's just... Yeah." And away he strode on long strides, head down and arms swinging, eager to put more distance between him and this recruit.

Rory simply snorted at his retreating back, trailing behind at a leisurely pace.

* * *

After a bit of wandering, they found Ser Jory. To his credit, he somehow maintained a relatively civil demeanor, though his sense of superiority was blatantly clear even to Alistair. He kept a close eye on Rory's reaction as the knight spoke, feeling a storm brewing all the while.

"Greetings." Ser Jory bowed stiffly, his tone lofty. When he straightened himself, however, he faltered whilst eyeing the flame-haired boy with more skepticism than was truly necessary. "You must be the third recruit we heard about."

Rory arched a brow and smirked, arms crossing his chest once more. "My goodness, so you've heard of me, too? I'm starting to think I've grown quite infamous in these parts." Casually he inspected his nails, prompting Alistair to restrain a snort of laughter.

"Well, we...haven't heard a great deal, but we have been waiting for your arrival." He glanced away then, a thinly veiled attempt to hide his distaste at the cheeky comment. Rory made no reply, but his eyes narrowed and his jaw locked. Ser Jory sighed wearily, and his voice took on a tone of condescension, as though he couldn't believe he was explaining his own importance to someone no better than a peasant. "Ser Jory is my name. I hail from Redcliffe, where I served as a knight under the command of Arl Eamon." His eyes shifted back to Rory. Despite their nearly being the same height, it was clear that he was looking down his nose. "Might I ask where **you** hail from, friend?"

Alistair could have slapped a palm to his forehead in that instance. Andraste's mercy, he **had** to be kidding.

"Highever." Rory quipped, his grin feral. "I'm a merchant's son, if you must know. Is that going to be a problem for you, ser knight?" Though his smile stayed in place, his eyes flashed with a dangerous gleam.

Ser Jory quickly looked to his chin instead, and he seemed to find the good grace to color, for his cheeks took on a splotchy redness. "You've obviously impressed Duncan, and that's enough for me. I hope we are both lucky enough to eventually join the Grey Wardens. Is it not thrilling to be given that chance?" Clearly he meant to remind Rory that he was being elevated above the station of mere peasant, and therefore needed to behave with more decorum. Alistair glanced at him through the corner of his eye, seeing that it was this comment that had finally pushed Rory over the edge.

His face was flushed, and it was through this act he could see a harsh, jagged scar take form along the length of his jaw. He had not seen it before, his skin being so fair, but now it was a screaming beacon. Ser Jory's gaze fell upon it, too, and Alistair was almost sure his expression was growing more smug. He thought him embarrassed, hence the blush.

But just as soon as it appeared, the scar faded into a faint, silvery shimmer, and Rory's expression calmed into an impish delight. "You know, if you pull that stick out of your ass, ser knight, you just might have enough room for your sword."

Ser Jory sighed, shaking his head as though he were dealing with a petulant child, and decided not to answer the implied provocation. He turned to Alistair, blatantly ignoring Rory's heated gaze. "I suppose since you're finally here, I'd best get back to Duncan. I shall see you there." With that, he left. No one missed that he hadn't said, 'I shall see you **both** there.'

Rory watched his departure with a wrinkled nose. "Impertinent pig." He muttered under his breath.

"I...apologize for Ser Jory's behavior. He will learn to treat you as an equal with time. Duncan will not allow it to continue once the Joining is complete, I can promise you that."

"Assuming he makes it that far." Rory growled, his musical accent taking on a rougher quality.

Alistair paled at his words, momentarily losing his voice. He couldn't have possibly known...? "What do you mean?" He inquired after quietly clearing his throat.

Rory glanced at him through his lashes, a single brow lifted. "If he keeps acting like a prat, it'll be more than just **his** sword shoved up his ass." He clarified, now turning his head to look him full in the face. "Why? What did you think I meant?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing. Just... Sorry. Let's move on, shall we?"

It wasn't long before they found Daveth. Unlike Ser Jory, it seemed a person's heritage was of no consequence to the man, so long as it came in an attractive package. The shapely blonde warrior that was currently scowling at his advances made that perfectly clear. Stealing a glance at Rory, Alistair was surprised to see how utterly offended he looked, as though he was suffering the unwarranted attention **for** the girl.

"Oy." He piped up, drawing the thief's attention and allowing the relieved girl to quickly escape. "Recruit **number two**, are you?"

Now Alistair really was about to lose it. The emphasis seemed lost on Daveth, but it certainly wasn't on him.

"That's me. You must be the lad from Highever." He paused, his curiosity obvious as his gaze began to rove over Rory. After it started to cross into the territory of mental undressing, he finally declared, "You're certainly not what I thought you'd be." Alistair felt Rory tense beside him, and looked to see his thunderous eyes narrow into dangerous slits. He had definitely been wise to keep his mouth shut about his looks earlier.

"Yeah? And might you have a point that you'd like to share about that?" Maybe it was a harsher reaction than Daveth was due, but one couldn't really blame the young recruit; he'd already been tested by lack of propriety today. Twice.

"No, no, I'm just surprised, is all. Not everyday you see a lad as pretty as most lasses, eh? I guess that's Highever for you." The last part dripped with such smarm and underhanded insult that it prompted Alistair to loudly clear his throat in an attempt to remind the man that there were others listening to this exchange. That, and he didn't really feel it was a good idea to let Rory stick him with the fine sword and dagger crisscrossing his back. Even if he did want to see it happen.

"Right, name's Daveth," he continued, and turned to face the templar straight on. "Shall I assume that your sudden appearance means Duncan is ready to send us to our deaths?"

Alistair rolled his eyes. "If that were the case, I hardly think he would've bothered to drag your sorry carcass from the Denerim prison he found you rotting in."

"You never know, what with all the secrets swirling about this place." Daveth countered, twirling a finger to emphasis his point. "Makes my nose twitch. Anyway, lead the way. Let's get it done and over with." With that, he fell in line beside Rory, continuing the unnecessary perusal of his person.

"Would you kindly stop staring at me as though I've grown sodding cabbages out of my sodding ears?" He growled, turning a sharp gaze to the thief, whose head lifted at his own leisure.

"Can't help it. So few women about and all, and I gotta look somewhere, don't I?"

"Are you bloody well serious? Ugh!" Rory replied in horrified disgust, quickening his pace so that he matched strides with Alistair. He turned to him with fire blazing in his eyes. "Listen, I really respect and appreciate everything Duncan has done for me, and I really don't want to offend him by gutting his other sodding recruits, but know that this pig's intestines **will** be decorating my sword if he keeps talking to me like a two-bit whore."

Unable to clap down the chuckle that escaped his throat, he quickly swallowed it when he saw those grey eyes flash. "Sorry. I've just been waiting for someone to put him in his place since he arrived." Rory didn't respond right away, giving Alistair the chance to steal another sidelong glance. He was pleased to see the corner of his lips turn up in a reluctant grin.

"You think I'd be used to it by now. I'm sad to say he isn't the first prat to comment on how 'pretty' I am." Rory mumbled, his glower returning and gaining more heat when he spotted Ser Jory a few feet from where Duncan stood.

Alistair sighed. "On the one hand, I agree that they shouldn't pick on you like that. You can't help looking the way you look. It's just the way you look. But you also have to understand that these men have been surrounded by other men for...awhile. There are so few women here, barely a handful, and they're only here for a short time. Basically what I'm trying to say is...well, you're stuck between a rock and a hard place."

"So when I'm not being teased, I'm being propositioned?"

"Starting to look that way."

"I'm not entirely sure which is worse."

"You're just young, is all. I was called a girly boy all the time when I was your age. In fact, I'm **still** called a girly boy on occasion. You'll grow out of it."

"I'm twenty-three." He stated flatly, looking to him with a matching gaze.

"By the Maker, are you serious?" Alistair blurted, instantly retracting his double take and forcing his eyes to look ahead when he saw the redhead glaring back at him. "Well, um, you're very...young-looking."

"Perhaps I should parade my genitals around. That'll get the bloody prats going." Rory grumbled in response.

"You know, you curse an awful lot."

"Sod off." He fired back, but flashed a wink and a grin when Alistair gawked at him in a scandalized manner. It didn't take long for it to turn into a relieved chuckle.

They found Duncan warming his hands over the bonfire when they finally reached him, a full grown mabari snoozing near his foot, and Ser Jory eyeing it warily. With a short, high whistle from Rory, it snapped to attention and appeared at his side in an instant. It took all of Alistair's willpower not to burst out laughing when he saw the snobbish knight noticeably flinch at the movement.

The dog's nub of a tail wagged violently, making his entire backside wiggle in a humorous way. It wasn't often one saw a happy mabari, but damn if Alistair had never seen a more excited creature in all his life.

"Hello, Odin. Were you a good boy while I was gone?" Rory said softly, kneeling before the beast to vigorously scratch behind both ears. He looked into the dog's eyes with an expression of such love, Alistair almost felt as though he were intruding. But when Rory stopped scratching his ears so that they could quite suddenly smash their heads together, the feeling quickly subsided.

"Well, now that everyone is present, I'll assume you are ready to begin preparations. Assuming you're finished riling up mages, Alistair." Duncan began, his stare becoming pointed as it turned to the templar.

Cringing through an awkward grin, Alistair shrank away. "What can I say? The Revered Mother ambushed me! The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army."

Duncan's brow became heavy over his dark eyes. "She forced you to sass the mage, did she?"

Mumbling an apology, he merely kept head his head down as Duncan lectured about the necessity of avoiding more attention than was necessary. He felt Rory rise to full height beside him, interest piqued and poised to speak. Whatever he wanted to say was lost, however, as Duncan turned to face the recruits and outline the tasks before them.

The first task was already very well known to him, but Alistair was intrigued by the second task, unaware that the Grey Wardens could demand the support of Ferelden's scattered races simply by flashing around centuries-old documents. He wondered if they would even be necessary, considering how well they'd been doing the past few weeks, and likely would continue to do so in the coming battle. Still, he supposed the option of having such support was good to have in one's back pocket.

Once the recruits came to an understanding about their tasks, Duncan dismissed them and pulled Alistair out of earshot, leaning in for quieter conference. "Alistair, watch over your charges, and return quickly and safely. I also request that you keep a close eye on Rory, if you wouldn't mind."

Alistair was taken slightly aback by the concern in his mentor's voice. He glanced over to see Daveth eyeing the redhead a bit too closely for his comfort once more. He wasn't able to get out much of what he wanted to say, however, before Rory shoved him hard in the chest and knocked him down onto his backside. "Uh, I don't mean to question orders, Duncan, but of the three, Rory seems to be the most capable. If anything, I find myself more concerned for Daveth."

Duncan chuckled softly and nodded. "Of that I have no doubt. But he is...grieving. His family was betrayed by someone they trusted, and he lost all of them in a single night." Duncan sighed and redirected his gaze back to Alistair. "He will not speak of it, this I know for certain, but he will likely seek some form of vengeance in the Wilds. Do not allow him to over exert himself, if you can. I fear that wasting his energy will effect his Joining."

Had this not been Duncan delivering this news, Alistair would not have believed a word of it. Looking to the boy again, he blinked in surprise. "How long ago did this happen?"

"Not quite three days." The senior Warden answered solemnly.

"Three days?" The younger echoed in disbelief. "He's...he's a good actor, I'll give him that."

"Yes, well, he is a proud, stubborn boy. He is trying his might to stay strong to honor their memory, but...the wound is still fresh. I just wanted you to be aware, just in case he tries to exhaust himself or pull off some heroics. I trust you to not bring this up with him, of course."

"No, no, of course not. I'll just..." His words died on his tongue as he glanced to Rory again, unable to look elsewhere now that this information was known. There was an unmistakable defiance in the way his jaw was set, and his shoulders sagged slightly, heavy with sorrow and exhaustion. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, no doubt from the interference of nightmares. The scars of mourning were so clear in his youthful face, it was hard to believe he hadn't noticed them before. He sighed, finally tearing his gaze away. "You can count on me, Duncan."

"Maker watch over your path, Alistair. I will see you when you return."

* * *

For those of you who're interested, be sure to check out my Tumblr (which you can find on my profile page) for updates, announcements, and gratuitous amounts of fangirling. I apologize in advance.


	3. Chapter Three

Before you go on, my dear readers, I must warn that the wording of this chapter is a bit odd in that the gendered pronouns used to describe Rory switch from male to female based on the point of view of certain characters. I sincerely hope that it doesn't confuse anyone.

Other than that, please enjoy this stupidly long chapter and the shameless use of pop culture references I shoved into it.

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**CHAPTER THREE**

_In Which Rory Mutilates Some Monsters and Sasses the Witch of the Wilds_

* * *

Rory knew it was pointless to sulk like this. She kept telling herself that nothing good would come from punishing herself over her family's death. Still, purging everything from her mind was proving to be extremely difficult while this potent wrath pulsed through her veins. She felt as though it were poisoning her blood with fire and ice all at once.

Standing still for more than a few minutes gave her too much time to think about everything she'd lost; not only her mother and father, but her sweet-tempered sister-in-law and her nephew. Her heart clenched at the memory of Oren, always following her about, tugging on her long braid and begging her to tell him more stories of dragons and heroes. He was so much like his father, it was as though she'd lost Fergus as well.

Fergus.

Maker's breath, she wouldn't know what she would do without Fergus. He'd always been there for her, teaching her how to fight and handle a sword. Sticking up for her whenever the bratty little nobles' daughters would pick on her after her etiquette classes. Always calling her 'Carrots' even though he knew she'd punch him in the arm each time he did. The memories of them tormenting their taskmaster, pestering the guards, and stealing from Nan's larder flooded her mind. He'd always helped her when she was too small, always took the blame for whenever they were caught, always chased away the unwanted suitors, and never missed an opportunity to tell her that it was love at first sight when she'd been born.

She had never known anything outside of them, never known another life. Now it was all gone - burned away in a night of agonized screams, fire, and flashing swords.

Rory felt the warmth of her hound move beside her, the sleek fur of his head sliding up beneath her hand. She smiled down at him, and saw that his large, golden brown eyes were full of understanding; his pain was as great as her own, for he knew exactly what they'd lost. A cord in her heart was struck, bringing her to kneel before him once more. "We must be strong, Odin," she whispered, pressing her lips to his hard brow and mumbling around it. She didn't miss the piqued interest of Daveth and Ser Jory, standing only a few feet away. "We must fight back, and spare nothing that tries to get in our way."

He growled in reply, fervor making his hackles rise.

"We show no mercy to these monsters, just as we will show no mercy to that treacherous vermin, Howe. When we fight, we will not hesitate, and we will not be afraid."

A sharp bark made it clear he understood his mistress's words.

"So this is your dog, eh? Good breed, the mabari." Daveth's voice announced itself then, and Rory turned just in time to see him move beside her, reaching out to pat Odin's head. Acting fast, Rory grabbed his hand to twist it hard, locking the joint and forcing a strangled cry of surprised pain.

"Touch my dog, you lose an arm." She said in a low voice, bending his wrist a bit further before yanking him upright to shove him hard in the chest. He stumbled and fell back into the dirt, blinking up at her in shock. Quickly it bled into outrage.

"And just what is **your** problem, pretty boy? I only wanted to pet the damn beast!" Back on his feet, his face colored with shame and anger.

Rory merely smirked. "Be glad I intervened. I meant it when I said you'd lose an arm if you touched him." Nodding her head in Odin's direction, Daveth turned to see the dog's teeth bared and snout warped into a dangerous fury. The growl summoned from deep from within his chest was a nice touch, too. "The jaws of a mabari hound are said to be strong enough to bite through steel. Care to test that theory, Daveth?"

Instantly he paled and backed away to stand near Ser Jory, who watched her in shock. She turned on him when she realized her audience, sparks igniting in her storm grey eyes. "Something to say, Ser Jory?" Her voice was coated in a simpering sweetness, barely hiding the underlying menace that waited to strike.

"No, no!" He quickly replied with a gulp, focusing his sight straight ahead and scooting a good few inches away. "You'll hear no arguments from me, my boy."

"Let me make myself perfectly clear to the both of you," Rory began, her voice dark and her eyes keen. "From here on out, you are not to make any comments on my appearance, my age, or my heritage. You are not to condescend to me, or make any disparaging remarks in my direction whatsoever. You are not to touch any of my belongings or my dog unless you have my permission. And if I hear you calling me 'my boy' once more, ser, I cannot guarantee that my hound will not start favoring the taste of **your **arm."

"O-of course. Rory." The knight trembled, quickly adding the name for good measure.

By the time Alistair returned from his conference with Duncan, they'd been beaten down into being so utterly cowed, he was sure he wasn't even looking at the right group for a moment. Both men stood a sizable distance from the fiery recruit, whose expression was one of such triumph that he couldn't help but chuckle.

Closing the distance, he addressed all three of them. "Well then, shall we head out?"

Rory nodded before turning to his dog, the hard lines of his face instantly softening. "You stay here and keep Duncan company, okay? I don't want you getting sick from darkspawn blood."

Despite his whine of protest, the mabari slunk back to Duncan's side and collapsed dramatically at his feet. Rory merely shook his head and chuckled, but wasted no time as he made his way towards the gates. Alistair blinked at his retreating back, and hurried along to match strides with his own.

"Eager, are we?" He teased, voice thick with amusement.

"Perhaps a little. I'm curious to see what these creatures look like. I'm even more curious to see what their guts look like." Rory remarked with a light, conversational tone.

"Gross and grosser." The templar replied with the straightest face he could muster. It melted away into a half grin when he glanced back from the corner of his eye.

"Oh, Alistair, what would we do without you?" The redhead swooned girlishly, earning himself an honest laugh.

The Wilds were much like Rory imagined them to be; damp, dismal, and ripe with the smell of death and rot. Moss grew on every blackened tree, there was a distinctive squish with each step one took, and the swamps were no clearer than mud. Not only that, but just about every animal they encountered attempted to maim them. At one point, a crow apparently developed a serious vendetta against the group, for it would not stop tormenting them for a good fifteen minutes. Daveth was lucky that the squawking terror was chased away before his eyes could be pecked out, leaving him with a nasty scratch on his face and a few droppings on his shoulders.

Wiping the sweat from her brow and tossing the stick that was her impromptu weapon away, Rory sighed in exasperation. Little wonder the darkspawn had decided to hole up here.

"Well, it's not as bad as I thought." She heard Alistair sigh as they continued onward.

"I hope you're kidding." She replied flatly, glancing to him with weary disbelief.

He shrugged. "Well, I'm not saying I'd like to build a summer home here or anything, but the trees are actually quite lovely."

"I knew you hit your head too hard on that tree branch back there."

"Hey, if anything, I lightly bumped into it, thank you." He defended, taking that chance to duck beneath a curtain of moss.

"Oy, lovebirds, if you wouldn't mind keeping quiet for a second? Unless you want the whole hoarde to skin us all alive." Daveth grumbled behind them, prompting the two to glance back over their shoulders and pin him down with a flat stare.

"Sod off." They said in perfect unison, and turned away to march ahead.

It was only an hour more before they finally came across a small band of darkspawn. She supposed that it would have been more normal to whimper in fear or go entirely white, but it was seeing those twisted, monstrous faces snarl at her that stirred something predatory within Rory. Before she could even think to stop herself, her teeth were bared, and she snarled right back.

In this moment, she forgot the pain of her loss and the ache in her bones. She forgot her exhaustion, her heartbreak, and her lack of hope. Her mind cleared and her heart swelled, the adrenaline in her blood a liquid fire. Her feet glided across the spongy earth as she charged them, her grandfather's blade screaming in thirst for blood as it was freed from its sheath, her father's dagger quickly following. It was then her mind suddenly flooded with images of her family.

Images of them laughing, scolding, speaking gentle words. Images of Fergus carrying her on his shoulders. Of her mother braiding her hair. Of her father reading her stories. Of her and Oren playing pretend games with crude wooden swords and kitchen pots for helmets. Of Orianna quietly sipping tea while they played chess. Of Ser Gilmore stuttering and stumbling over his words anytime she appeared before him in a dress her mother forced her into.

All of this and many others blurred her vision, sporadic flashes of Arl Howe's face interrupting them more and more as they sped by even faster. Soon, his hooked nose and cruel black eyes were all she could see. The cry of wrath she released was enough to stall even the darkspawn for about half a second.

Rory was weightless as she sailed through the air towards her prey, her eyes alight with a murderous glee, and her throat producing a bone chilling roar. The first to fall was a Genlock rogue, its rusted blade knocked away when her sword and dagger stabbed forward and found its neck, sinking deep into the base. She plunged into the lifeless creature further, lifting it from the ground and above her head, her back bowing in to throw it off her blades with momentum. It sailed away into the trio her own group was currently battling. She didn't bother to glance at their faces and see the reaction this garnered - she simply kept her flow of movement, knowing her next two victims were just behind her.

The dagger sliced through their necks in a sudden decapitation before she could even fully turn around. The heads rolled off and met the ground with wet thumps, leaving the rest to fall over each other after a second or so.

At last there was the Hurlock, preparing to pounce with scimitar aloft. Their swords clashed as she whirled around, but hers slid down the length of its own to slice its hand clean off. Using this moment of distraction, Rory leapt forward and left her sword to fall over the creature's, now holding the dagger in both hands so that she could slice and hack and stab with every single fiber of strength and rage she possessed. She had worked herself up into such a passion, she failed to realize her quarry was long past dead, now mutilated beyond recognition, or that the fighting had stopped altogether. The only sound to fill the still air was her grunting and the wet squelch of steel penetrating rended flesh.

"Rory!" She heard Alistair cry out somewhere in the distance, his voice a faint echo that gradually became louder. "Rory, stop! It's dead!" His hand clapped over her wrist, stilling her frantic stabbing. With another feral growl, she rounded on him the instant he touched her, now pointing the blackened dagger at his throat.

Alistair had never seen anyone be burned alive before, but he was quite sure he was going to be if he let Rory stare at him any longer. The fiery grey eyes that had held him in place upon their meeting were now dark and glassy, and through the black blood splattered across his face, one could see he was terribly pale. Such savage, frightening beauty left Alistair to release a slow, shaking breath he'd held too long.

Slowly he released him to let his arm fall back at his side, and the one he knew to be Rory Ashton steadily returned with the lowering of his weapon. His breathing was ragged when the haze from his eyes cleared.

"I guess it would be pointless to say you did a good job." Alistair said with a weak smile. Rory mirrored it before squatting down to let his head hang forward heavily. He thrust the blade of the dagger into the gut of his kill, and ran a bloodied glove through his hair with a sigh. He hardly cared anymore.

"Four out of eight? I could've done better." His chuckle was hollow and breathy, the scar on his face standing out vividly against the blush of embarrassment heating his features.

"What in the name of the Maker was that all about?" Daveth spoke up, he and Ser Jory now making their presence known. Rory didn't need to look up to see that the gory display left them skittish. Well, more skittish.

"I'm here to kill darkspawn and chew gum. I was out of gum." Peering over his arm and through a part in his hair, he grinned wickedly at the pair. They backed away as though he were a ravenous wolf.

With a snort of disgusted laughter, Rory rolled onto the balls of her feet and rose to stand. But before her heels could brush the grass, she found that an alarming amount of dizziness suddenly overwhelmed her. She stumbled back, preparing herself to hit spongy marsh, and was surprised to feel a strong hand press itself against the middle of her back; it was warm and comforting despite the cold of the forest, sending a shock of heat through her armor, clothes, and skin. After a quick shake of her head, her eyes focused on the one who steadied her.

Alistair stared straight back, his expression heavy with worry. Immediately it was replaced with a faint blush pooling into his cheeks, and he snatched his hand away from her back, leaving her to narrow her eyes in curiosity. "Are you alright?" He mumbled, looking to her brows rather than her eyes. She could see he was still on his guard, however, just in case she might tip over again.

Her grin became weak. "I'm fine. I think I just… Small dizzy spell, that's all."

Alistair smiled right back, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to steer her onward. He leaned in close to speak directly in her ear, leaving Ser Jory and Daveth to eye them suspiciously a few feet back. "You might want to just take it easy from here on out. Stick by my side if you can. I know that berserker fighters have the tendency to completely wear out their stamina after a battle, and we can't have you doing that just before your Joining. Might give it a turn for the worse."

"Berserker fighter? I'm not-" Rory started in before Alistair cut her off with a wave of his hand.

"Just wait until after. Once you become a Grey Warden, you'll find you'll have loads of stamina and energy that you never thought you'd possess. Once you have that, **then** you can completely go…well, berserk."

"I-… Very well. I'll just stay by you, then." She sighed.

"In fact, why don't you use your crossbow instead. You can cover us from behind." He suggested, though the unwavering tone in his voice made it clear it wasn't to be questioned. Rory nodded and returned her sword and dagger to their respective sheaths, taking the whitewood crossbow belted against the small of her back. It popped into its proper form with a loud click upon the release of the mechanism.

"You know, you can talk to me. About whatever." Alistair said after some time, tentatively glimpsing from his peripheral vision.

Rory returned the gesture and arched a brow. "There isn't much to talk about."

"Really? So you're telling me you just lost it back there for no reason?"

"You saw what those things looked like," she defended immediately, glaring through her shaggy forelock. "And I really don't see why it matters how I killed them. Point is, I did."

"Alright, alright!" Alistair spoke up quickly, hands waving in surrender. "You win. I was just…curious."

"Yes, well, you might want to save your curiosity for him." Rory declared, jerking her chin forward to summon his attention. Alistair followed the line of sight, where movement caught his eye just a few yards away. It was then he saw a thoroughly blood-soaked man that lay gravely injured, pinned beneath a darkspawn corpse riddled with arrows. As they approached him, he peered out from beneath his helm with bleary eyes.

"Who…is that? Grey…Wardens?"

Alistair sighed in relief. "Well, he's not half as dead as he looks, is he?"

The man seemed to have either ignored or not heard the templar's comment, for he continued. "Our scouting band was attacked by darkspawn…they came out of the ground. Please, help me. I've got to…" he choked back on what they presumed was blood, "return to camp…"

"A scouting band?" Rory cut in, kneeling before him and lifting his chin so that she might look into his blood streaked face. "Lead by whom? Who was your leader?"

"I…didn't know his name, ser. But please, if you-"

"What did he look like? Tall? Dark-haired?" She could not help the panic that began to crawl into her voice. She could feel the eyes of her companions on her again, probing her with questions she would not answer. **Could** not answer.

"I…believe so, ser. I think he…might have escaped, though."

She nodded firmly and turned back to Alistair. "Bandage him up. I'm going to check for others."

"I- uh, o-okay." He replied, standing bewildered as the redhead didn't even wait to hear his consent on the matter. Off he went to dig through the slain and turn over bodies for inspection, leaving the trio to tend to the injured man.

"The bandages will do, sers. If you'll help me wrap my wounds…I can make my own way back."

"I have some bandages in my pack," Alistair volunteered, kneeling before the soldier and gingerly lifting him into a sitting position. "It's a miracle you lasted this long."

It took some time to still his bleeding, but once he was patched up and sent on his way, the group approached Rory, who was busy wrestling a dented helm from the head of a soldier. It didn't take much deducing to see he'd been bludgeoned to death.

"Rory, what in the name of Andraste are you doing?" Alistair spoke up, horrified when he saw the young recruit unceremoniously roll the unmasked corpse from his lap. Still he held the helm in his hands, staring into the eye holes. He wasn't sure, but he thought he could see him smiling sadly to himself.

"He's not here. Let's move on." He announced, moving to his feet and tossing the helmet away.

"Who's not here?" Asked Daveth, utterly confused.

"Someone I know. I was told he was scouting in the Wilds, but he must've escaped just as that soldier said."

"But didn't you hear him? An entire patrol of seasoned men, killed by darkspawn!" Ser Jory spoke up, pale with fear.

Rory rolled his eyes. "Are you certain? Looks to me like they were just having a picnic." He sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm and vitriol. Alistair shot him a withering look, one he acknowledged with an exaggerated shrug and large eyes, as if to say, 'What? He was asking for it!'

Raising his brows at him in warning, Alistair turned to the knight. "Calm down, Ser Jory, we'll be fine if we're careful."

"Those soldiers were careful, and they were **still** overwhelmed!" He protested, gesturing towards the bodies around them, as though they needed to emphasis his point. "How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? There's an entire army in these forests!"

Alistair lowered his voice, forcing it to be as soothing as possible. "True, there are darkspawn about, but we're in no danger of walking into the bulk of the hoard."

"How do you know?" The knight retorted. "I'm not a coward, but this is foolish and reckless."

"Could have fooled me." Rory said dryly, swinging his crossbow back so that it rest against his shoulder.

"Know this," Alistair paused, pointedly making eye contact with all three of them. "All Grey Wardens can sense the darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee you that they won't take us by surprise. That's why I'm here."

"You see, ser knight? We might die, but we'll be warned about it first." Daveth teased with a cheeky half-grin.

"That is…reassuring." Ser Jory replied through his teeth.

Alistair interjected before blades might be drawn. "That doesn't mean I'm here to make this easier, however, so let's get a move on." Rather than wait for a reaction, he simply brushed past them and ventured on towards a nearby hill.

The pink and orange vestiges of twilight were dwindling into speckled blue by the time the companions decided to make camp. At that point, they had collected enough darkspawn blood to perform a whole army's worth of Joinings. The search for the cache, however, kept them turning in circles and proving almost impossible to find. Duncan had been too vague in describing the cache's hideout as an overgrown ruin; there were dozens of overgrown ruins in these parts.

There were only a few more to search, one of which they could see just beyond a hill in the distance, but the recruits were becoming weaker with hunger and exhaustion. Alistair finally called the halt when Rory managed to stumble straight into an exposed tree root and face plant into the spongy grass, limbs sprawled out as though they were boneless. He was even more convinced when he failed to get back up right away, even after he'd nudged him with his foot and Daveth had poked him with one of his daggers a few times.

Now with Ser Jory curled up into a snoring ball beside the fire, and Daveth perched upon a nearby rock to take the first watch, Alistair wandered over to settle himself beside the ragged redhead. He looked to him curiously, perplexed as to why he wasn't snoring up a storm along with the knight.

"And why are you staring at me, exactly?" He mumbled around the slice of bread that served as his dinner.

"I'm amazed you're still awake." Alistair answered, unsheathing a small dagger and slipping it into a strap on his boot as a precaution. "Especially after all the ground we've covered today…"

"Apparently not that much."

"…and the fact you had more than a mouthful of that very ground when you collapsed earlier…"

"I- well, yeah, but-"

"…and when you completely blew your top on those darkspawn-"

"Alistair, if you have a point, please disregard it." Rory grumbled.

The templar shrugged as he turned his gaze away, familiar enough with the biting sarcasm to not take it personally. "All I'm saying is you should probably get some sleep. Honestly, out of all of us today, I think you might have racked up the highest kill count."

"Hey, we can't all be that awesome." He said with a good-natured grin. "But seriously, I'm fine. I'll be fit as a fiddle and raring to go in the morning, I promise."

It might have been the firelight flickering across Rory's face, or perhaps they'd simply grown more prominent thanks to the various ordeals within the day, but the circles beneath those grey eyes suddenly looked deeper. It was actually starting to look as though that dainty nose of his had been punched until broken.

With a hammer. A sledgehammer. That had a huge a fist.

"Nightmares." He murmured, his gaze knowing.

Rory looked to him like a frightened animal. "Sorry, what?"

"You've been having nightmares about what happened before Duncan brought you here. I can tell by the circles under your eyes."

"How…how did you-"

"Duncan told me about the…uh, situation that lead you here…" He trailed away, picking at the skin around his nails.

"Oh." The redhead turned away from him and stared hard into the fire. "I kind of figured that's what he was doing when he pulled you off to the side."

A heavy silence descended upon the pair for several minutes, as both were determined not to look anywhere remotely near the other.

"Um." Alistair shattered the tension first, rubbing his neck whilst doing so. "Did you want to talk about it? Might make you feel a little better."

Rory bit her lower lip and considered her answer for a moment; while it wasn't exactly a story one could deem appropriate for a good ol' getting-to-know-you-how-do-you-do, even she had to admit he was probably right in some respect. And if she did have to tell someone, it might as well have been the one person who knew when to shut the sod up.

"The man who betrayed my father was…well, he and my father had been friends since before I or even my brother'd been born. Close friends, too. He was as much a part of the family as our actual family."

"What did he want? What could have been so important that he'd destroy such a friendship?"

Rory didn't bother to hold back the grim, rueful smirk that tugged her chapped lips. "That, my dear Alistair, is an excellent question. I'll be sure to ask him right before I slice off his head and spit down his neck." And with that imagery set in motion, Alistair turned his focus back to the flames and shut the sod up. Rory looked to his haunted expression and chuckled softly; she'd picked her confidant well. "Sorry. Didn't mean to turn your stomach."

"No, no. That…yeah, I can understand why you'd want to…uh…anyway. Earlier you said you were looking for someone you knew? A tall, dark-haired man?"

"Indeed. I doubt he knows what's happened, so I need to find him as quickly as I can."

"Who is he?" Alistair inquired, his unease gone and his curiosity piqued.

"My brother. He…uh, volunteered for combat." Rory answered, her fingers twisting around themselves.

"Volunteered? I didn't even know you **could** volunteer." He paused, frowning. "Who **would** volunteer?"

"Maker bless him, but my brother has always been a bit of a glory hound." Rory sighed wearily, shaking her head and prodding the fire into life. "Regardless, I need to track him down and tell him what has transpired. I can't face Ho- that traitor alone."

Alistair made a low, thoughtful noise from his throat. "Listen, I realize that Duncan put me in charge of your safety and so forth, but for what it's worth…" He trailed away, trying to figure out how to word his next sentence without making it come across as completely weird. "I actually kind of like you. You know, as a friend. And, well…" He slowed when he saw the recruit turn to look at him strangely. "Well, I don't know. We seem to get along pretty well. And, uh…you fight good."

"My goodness, how **do** you keep the ladies off of you?" Rory drawled through a smirk. Alistair snorted.

"Alright, so maybe I'm not the most eloquent of people, but my point is that I think you're a pretty decent bloke. I just figured we could, you know, be friends. And maybe, if you're up for it, you could just talk to me anytime you feel like using a body as a pincushion." At that, the half grin on Rory's face evolved into a full blown smile, one that touched those steely grey eyes and melted the ice from them.

"Deal." Alistair was nearly shocked out of his skin when Rory's hand, dirt wedged beneath the nails and naked without the protective gauntlet, suddenly thrust forward to receive a handshake. He stared longer than he probably needed to before fixing it onto the amused redhead's face. "What? We're friends, aren't we?"

"We…sure as sod are!" Alistair replied with vigor, clapping his hand against Rory's and pausing as he thought to throw in the swearing simply for the hell of it. Especially since present company seemed to be so fond of the act.

His grin only grew wider when Rory burst out laughing, nearly falling off the log he sat on.

* * *

They knew it couldn't be as easy as picking the cache apart once they'd found it. Blame his templar intuition, but Alistair wasn't entirely surprised when the girl made her presence known behind them.

"Well, well," she began flippantly, slowly descending the staircase of the ruin, "what have we here? Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger, poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, coming into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?" As she approached them on a smooth gait, she paused to allow them an answer, giving them the chance to study her strange, exotic features carefully. One would have been a fool to say she wasn't beautiful, but one would have been an even bigger fool to say she wasn't an obvious threat. Her golden eyes, like those of a wild animal, made that perfectly clear. After too long a second, her impatience became evident. "What say you, hm? Scavenger or intruder?"

Alistair was quite sure Rory and this girl would have been locked in a staring contest to last the ages had he not intervened. He answered her question carefully, feeling every muscle in his body become tight. "We're not scavengers, and we're not intruders. The Grey Wardens used to own this tower."

Beside him, Rory stood unmoving with feet shoulder length apart and arms folded over his chest. Alistair was quite sure he'd yet to blink, either.

The girl finally gave up and slid her gaze to him. "'Tis a tower no longer," she chided lightly, "the Wilds have obviously claimed this desiccated corpse." Fearlessly she marched forward, parting their group and turning to stand a foot or so before Rory. He moved only to face her, otherwise a statue. "I have watched your progress for some time now. 'Where do they go?' I wondered, 'Why are they here?' And now, you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?"

"Don't answer that. She looks Chasind, and that means others are probably nearby." Alistair murmured to Rory.

The girl sneered. "Oh, you fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?"

"Yes. Swooping is bad." He stated flatly, his eyes narrowed.

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is. She'll turn us all into toads." Daveth suddenly whimpered behind them, prompting the girl's smirk to grow even wider.

"'Witch of the Wilds'? Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?" Her gaze turned to Rory then, a subtle determination shadowing her coy expression. She chuckled darkly. "You don't seem to be quite as shaken as your companions here. An admirable trait in such a handsome lad. Tell me your name, and I shall tell you mine."

"Rory." He answered without delay, brusque as the expression on his face. Once again, the girl softly chortled, her full lips curling into a cat-like grin.

"A stoic warrior if ever I saw one. You may call me Morrigan, if you wish."

"Hm." Rory grunted in response.

That seemed to be the best she could manage from him, so she merely continued. "Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest? Something that is here no longer?"

"'Here no longer'?" Alistair cut back in, puffing up and glaring with as much menace as could be taken seriously. "You stole them, didn't you? You're some kind of sneaky…witch thief!"

Behind the unwavering mask, Rory inwardly cringed.

"How very eloquent." Morrigan quipped in an almost sing-song manner. "How exactly does one steal from dead men?"

The scowling templar's wounded ego patched itself just in time for him to retort, "Quite easily it seems. Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them."

"I will not, for 'twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish. I am not threatened."

"Then who did?" Rory barked abruptly, making Alistair flinch in alarm.

The only thing to betray Morrigan's own surprise at the clipped tone was slightly widened eyes and lifted brows, but her cool was quickly composed before one might notice. At least, before all but the very redhead who'd provoked the reaction could notice. "'Twas my mother, in fact."

"Can you take us to her?"

The dark-haired beauty smirked, arching an elegant brow. "Now **there** is a sensible request. I think I rather like you." Her grin deepened when this statement did absolutely nothing to alter the stone-hard face of the taciturn young man, but instantly fell when the others stepped in.

"I'd be careful. First it's 'I like you,' but then 'Zap!' Frog time." Alistair grumbled, making his voice high and girlish when imitating her.

"She'll put us all in a pot, she will. Just you wait." Said a craven Daveth next.

"If the pot's warmer than this forest, it'll be a nice change." Ser Jory snapped.

"Follow me, then, if it pleases you." Morrigan interjected waspishly, and turned away before anymore could be said.

Without a word, Rory moved forward on long, fearless strides.

* * *

When they reached the creaking hut Morrigan and her mother called home, Alistair was nearly drained of breath the second he passed through the miasma of magic saturating the air. His old templar ways informed him that it was some kind of disorientation spell, possibly a misdirection hex, likely explaining how they'd managed to avoid detection for so long. From his peripheral vision, he could see Rory eyeing him warily.

"Templar senses tingling?" He muttered under his breath.

Alistair nodded, forcing his composure to right itself.

Rory fixed his sight on Morrigan. "Could we?"

With a shake of his companion's head, the redheaded recruit fell silent. His grim expression soon matched his own.

Alistair wasn't exactly sure what he was expecting when he imagined Morrigan's mother, but he could certainly say she looked like what one would picture a Witch of the Wilds to be. Corpse-like and pale, her withered skin was thin as paper and stretched taut over a brittle skeleton, and her glassy, golden eyes were sunken deep within her skull, glittering through a curtain of disheveled grey hair. They burned him much like Rory's had after their first encounter with the darkspawn, but it was different in a way that made it more frightening; where Rory's was an untamed inferno of wrath and strength, hers was icy with ancient knowledge and cunning. The moment they connected with his own, Alistair felt his spine prickle with dread.

"Greetings, Mother." Morrigan called once they were close. "I bring before you four Grey Wardens who-"

"I see them girl," the crone barked, eyeing each of the carefully and leaving her daughter to bite her lip. "Hm, much as I expected…"

Despite everything his brain was telling him, Alistair could not help the snort that escaped his throat. "Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?"

The witch answered without hesitation, her tone sharp. "You are required to do nothing, least of all believe. Shut one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide, either way one's a fool!"

He took the insult with a cool demeanor, finding there was nothing that could be said that didn't end up with him green and hopping off lily pads.

Instead, it was Daveth that decided to run his mouth off. "She's a witch, I tell you! We shouldn't be talking to her!"

In a moment of intelligence that surprised them all, Ser Jory quickly cut him off before more damage could be done. "Quiet Daveth! If she really is a witch, do you want to make her mad?" He hissed through tight lips.

"There's a smart lad," the crone chuckled, staring into the knight's face with shrewd eyes. "Sadly irrelevant in the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will." Now her sight turned to Rory, who regarded the old woman just as he had regarded her daughter not twenty minutes ago. It was almost funny, really, especially when the haggard witch began to approach the sturdy young recruit; with barely twelve inches separating them, he towered over her like an ominous giant. "And what of you?" She asked in a soft voice, which gave it a quality that made it more piercing. "Does your mind give you a different viewpoint, or do you believe as these boys do?"

"Believed or not, some things simply are." He stated firmly, earning himself a bark of laughter.

"Now there is the answer I had hoped to get! An open mind, but not made of mush. Am I simply complimenting you? Wait and see." She lifted herself onto her toes to get a closer look at his face, something that Rory gave no reaction to. He merely continued to stare her down, back straight and arms crossed. "So much about you is uncertain, and yet I believe… Do I?" She glanced away suddenly, as though her attention was summoned by something unseen. "Why, I believe I do."

The combination of Rory's apparent determination to glare the witches away and the mother obviously being off her rocker brought forth another snort from Alistair. "Sooo…this is a dreaded Witch of the Wilds." He said with a wry grin.

"Witch of the Wilds? Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it." Her hands clasped together as she intoned wistfully, "oh, how she dances under the moon!"

Sighing at the unhinged cackling that overtook her mother, Morrigan rubbed her temple to subdue a spreading headache. She spoke through a clenched jaw, obviously aware that her mother's antics were peculiar. "They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother."

"True, they came for their treaties, yes?" At that, her mother sobered instantly, and turned away to rummage through a sack near the door of their hut. When she returned, she placed the cluster of scrolls into Rory's waiting hand. "And before you begin barking, your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these."

"You…you protected them?" Alistair echoed, blinking in surprise.

The woman shrugged. "And why not? Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them that this Blight's threat is greater than they realize."

"What do you mean the threat is 'greater than they realize'?" Rory spoke at last, his voice considerably less forceful than it had been. His features appeared to have softened as well, which lured an enigmatic smile to the mother's weathered lips.

"Either the threat is more, or they realize less." She replied mysteriously, but once again dissolved into laughter. "Or perhaps the threat is nothing! Or perhaps they realize nothing!"

"All the same, thank you for returning them." Alistair supposed it was a miracle Rory seemed to be immune to this exasperation. Though he had to admit he would not have minded if his berserker fury decided to rear its head for a few seconds.

Even the witch took on an expression of surprised amusement. "Such manners! Always in the last place you look. Like stockings."

It was at this point Morrigan's patience was thoroughly worn out. "Time for you to go then."

"Do not be ridiculous, girl! These are your guests!" The crone admonished, prompting Morrigan to roll her eyes and release a withered sigh.

"Oh, very well. I will show you out of the woods."

The duration of their journey back was spent in blissful silence…if one was asking Alistair, anyway. The others could not be vouched for, as Daveth and Ser Jory had yet to remove their hands from the hilt of their weapons, and Rory's face was apparently stuck in that expression. All the same, with Morrigan guiding them through the less travel worn roads of the Wilds, they managed to evade the attention of the darkspawn.

Though at this rate, he was starting to wish some might make an appearance. It would at least get the two more wary members of their party to stop acting like a couple of suspicious old women. Not that it wasn't warranted, it was just annoying him now.

His irritation was soon given a reprieve, however, for it was no more than a mile outside Ostagar that Morrigan abruptly announced her farewell. "I trust you can find your own way back without drawing unwanted attention?" She said coolly, turning back the way they'd come. She paused to glance back over her shoulder, her calculating eyes finding Rory's.

He looked largely unimpressed. "We're not dead yet, so I'd say that's a pretty good indication," he remarked dryly. "I'd wish the same for you, but I have this nagging feeling that would be unnecessary."

"Oh, you are a clever boy, aren't you?" The apostate scoffed, her lip curling. "Might I suggest you try using a whet stone on your sword rather than your tongue? It might be of more use."

"Duly noted. Have a nice day." And with that, Rory turned on his heel and strode off, leaving Daveth and Ser Jory to stare dumbfounded at his retreating back.

Alistair, on the other hand, could only applaud him with loud, slow claps as he trailed behind.


	4. Chapter Four

Oh my gentle Jesus, I thought I'd never post this chapter. Writer's block hit me like a battering ram, and may or may not have insulted my mother, too. I send out my deepest and sincerest apologies to all my readers out there, because you guys are far too sexy to be dealing with this crap.

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

_In Which 'We' Became 'I'  
_

* * *

Night had fallen by the time the four companions returned, making Duncan's tall silhouette stark against the bonfire that still blazed. A loud bark from Rory's hound drew his attention to their presence, and he noted with mild amusement that they shuffled through the camp as if they were newly risen dead. The hound, however, was not deterred. Having been restless since the moment his mistress left, he nearly knocked Duncan off his feet in a mad dash to greet her.

Slowly she knelt to receive him despite the crunching protest of her knees, giving him enough of an invitation to pin her to the ground and assault her face with a sloppy tongue. Rather than fight back, she simply laid there like an unstuffed ragdoll. "I'm too damn tired to push you off," she muttered around the affection, "just don't- MAKER DAMN IT ALL, ODIN, THAT WAS IN MY MOUTH!" She flailed uselessly along with her endless string of curses, but it wasn't until Alistair finally managed to stop laughing and pry the dog off that she was able to even stand.

"You probably should have kept your mouth closed." He snickered at her side.

"Shut up." She snapped back, shooting him a deadly glare that might have been effective had her shaggy forelock not been stiff with dog drool.

"So," Duncan cleared his throat, instantly quieting the group. "You have returned from the Wilds. Were you successful?"

"We were." Rory grumbled, tussling her hair back into place. Dryly she added, "Honestly, we have enough blood to do twenty Joinings."

"Good. I've had the mages preparing in the meantime. With the blood you retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately."

"Perhaps now you can tell us what this ritual is all about?" She bluntly posed, crossing her arms over her chest and bringing herself to full height.

He sighed, finding there was little point in evading her question, especially with the other recruits scrutinizing him behind her. "I will not lie. We Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now, rather than later."

Rory swallowed hard before speaking, her tone brisk and her chin lifted a trifle. "I've come this far. I want to see this through."

Duncan blinked, taking this time to offer a long, knowing stare of his own. It was obvious to anyone with sight how afraid she was; he could see how pale she'd become, how stiff she held her shoulders, how her hands shook even while pinned under her arms. And yet, that determined scowl remained. She wasn't going anywhere.

"I agree." Ser Jory spoke up, drawing from Rory's courage to bring his pomposity up a notch. "Let's have it done."

"Then let us begin. Alistair, take them to the old temple." He said solemnly, glancing to the nervous templar. With a short nod, he bit off the thumbnail he'd been gnawing on and did as instructed. Rory lingered, falling back after only a few steps.

"Duncan, I-" She started, but he swiftly cut her off with a curt gesture.

"We will speak later. Go with the others." He ordered, his tone straining to be gentle. It was weighted, made harsh with a fear the redhead didn't understand. She looked into his dark eyes, and felt her throat tighten with foreboding; they weren't warm, tired, and sad as they so often were. Instead, they were guarded and hard.

Rather than prod him for it, she merely recouped the stubborn edge to her features and continued on her point. If there was one thing she'd learned while traveling with this man, it was that he would stay as silent as a grave if one nettled him for information he did not wish to give. She'd lost count of how many times she'd annoyed him to no end with questions, and ended up calling him a stubborn old goat to soothe the sting of being rejected or tricked into dropping the subject.

"It's about Fergus." She began firmly, fortifying her scowl. "His scouting band was attacked in the Wilds, and he was the only one to escape. He's alone out there. I **need** to find him, Duncan."

"Rory-" He returned wearily, shaking his head.

"Duncan." She fired back, her tone dangerously close to mocking. He released a slow breath through his nose, and fixed her with a long, level gaze before he spoke again. Her expression faltered the instant he did.

"_Aurora_. As I told you earlier, right now our priority is getting you through the Joining. Once that occurs, and once the battle is over, we will do our very best to track your brother down. I promise." His voice was calm, reassuring, and firm with a conviction the wise would know better than to challenge. But then, Rory wouldn't have been Rory if something in her did not refuse to take this statement lying down.

"What if he gets caught in the crossfire of the battle? What if the darkspawn retreat and find him wandering through the wilderness?" Her gestures became more wild, color bloomed in her cheeks, and the gentle coarseness of her voice was replaced with a note of shrill hysteria. The jagged scar slowly took form, crawling up the length of her jaw until it stopped just short of her ear.

Duncan studied it carefully before his eyes shifted to meet her own. His words were cautious, for he truly did not know what else he could say that might soothe this wild animal standing in the noble's place. "Do you truly believe he would allow himself to get into such a situation? If he is anything like you, I'm almost entirely certain he is fine."

A rueful smile she attempted to fight back became visible. "Stop trying to butter me up. It won't work." His reply stilled on his tongue when she started off to follow the others, leaving him to silently observe her retreating figure in what little firelight managed to touch her. On her back, through the tears in her clothes and the mangled leather straps of her stolen armor, he could see three long slash marks torn across her shoulders blades, crusted over in blood so dark it was almost black. Judging from the depth of them, they were likely left by a Hurlock scout. He supposed if one was to earn their first marks of battle, that was the way to do it. Before he might continue his perusal, she turned to glance back over her shoulder. "And don't think I missed the fact you said 'almost.'"

With that, shadow enveloped her.

The old temple, as it turned out, was actually the very same ruin where Rory and Alistair met. Without the sunlight gleaming off its marble surface, it looked grey and dismal, the ivy resembling spidery veins blackened with poison. How very apt, she thought as she wrinkled her nose. Gracelessly climbing over a fallen column, the sound of an argument reached her ears. She wasn't at all surprised to find it was between Daveth and Ser Jory, a very exhausted Alistair standing off some distance to their left. Whether it was exhaustion from their journey, or exhaustion from the bickering recruits, Rory couldn't decided. She was willing to bet all her silver it was on the latter, though.

The moment she made her presence known, he peeked up from where he was pinching the skin between his brows and straightened. Relief flooded his face as he offered her a smile and an expression that said 'thank the Maker you're here.' Rory came to stand close by, crossing her arms to mirror his stance. She leaned towards him, smirking.

"Looks like I won."

Alistair shot her a puzzled glance. "Meaning what exactly?"

"Oh, it's nothing. I was just thinking the reason you look like death is either because of the Wilds, or these two. I made a bet with myself saying it was these two." With a devilish grin, she angled a brow in haughty triumph. "I won."

The templar snorted, shaking his head. "I swear it's like they're married or something."

"I'll bring the rice." They shared a quiet laugh before falling into a comfortable silence. Or what would have been a comfortable silence.

What had once been white noise came into sharp focus as Ser Jory voiced his distaste, looking more a petulant child and less a warrior with every passing second. "The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it."

"Are you blubbering again?" Daveth sneered with a roll of his eyes.

"Why all these damned tests? Have I not earned my place?" The knight challenged, thumping a fist against his armored chest.

"Maybe it's tradition. Maybe they're just trying to annoy you." The thief replied slyly, a hint of malice laced through his words.

Before the thin barrier of restraint eroded completely, Rory took this chance to jump in. "Calm down. There's nothing we can do about it now, anyway." She declared firmly, stepping between the two and bolting them down with a steely glare.

It seemed to work somewhat, for Ser Jory's rigid posture and blotchy scowl softened. Helplessly he shrugged, and his expression took on a fearful concern. "I only know that my wife is in Highever with a child on the way. If they had warned me, I- it just doesn't seem fair."

Daveth didn't seem convinced. "Would you have come if they'd warned you? Maybe that's why they don't. The Wardens do what they must, right?"

"Including sacrificing us?" The knight snapped, coloring once again.

The thief's eyes flashed. "I'd sacrifice a lot more if I knew it would end the Blight."

At last the delicate thread of Rory's patience snapped. "Will you both shut **up**?"

"Yeah, ser knight, try not to wet your trousers until the ritual starts." Daveth chuckled darkly, but took a half step back all the same. He'd seen enough of the fearsome redhead's temper to know not to challenge it anymore.

Ser Jory sighed in defeat. "I've just never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade."

From the corner of her eye, Rory could see Alistair moving into the space beside her, poised to speak and previously good-natured face looking utterly grim. Suddenly he looked beyond her, whatever he was wanting to say tamped down when the sound of approaching footsteps reached their ears. All turned to see Duncan approaching, his dark face harboring a perfect duplicate of Alistair's shadowed expression.

"At last we come to the Joining." He began ominously, approaching a long, stone table that had been set up nearby. Resting atop it was a silver chalice, filled with a black liquid that likely didn't smell too pleasant. Call her paranoid, but Rory assumed it was best to not trust it, bad smell or no. Duncan's dark eyes swept over all three faces, but held hers as he continued. "The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood, and mastered the taint."

A long silence followed, the very breath in their lungs becoming still once the full weight of this statement hit them. Behind the dark blood splattered across her face, Rory felt herself blanch a sickly white. "Well..." she croaked, uncharacteristically meek, "and I thought dwarvish ale was bad..."

Not even a halfhearted chuckle or a disparaging frown rewarded her efforts, but it was Ser Jory who finally spoke what all three of them were thinking. "We're going to drink the blood of those...those creatures?"

Duncan nodded gravely. "As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you. This is the source of our power, and our victory."

Quietly, Alistair cleared his throat and stepped forward, speaking with a soft emphasis that Rory assumed was supposed to be encouraging. "Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn, and use it to slay the arch demon."

It wasn't.

"Uh, come again? Did you just say 'those who survive?'" She echoed with lifted brows.

"Not all who drink the blood will," Duncan interjected, "and those who do are forever changed. This is why the Joining is a secret. It is the price we pay." He paused, allowing them to absorb this. "We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first. Alistair, if you would?"

As all eight pairs of eyes turned to him, Alistair shifted his weight into both legs and released the slightest of sighs. "Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day we shall join you."

"Daveth, step forward." The senior Warden didn't even allow the elegantly sinister words to linger in the air. The goblet was in his hands and already being pushed into Daveth's, who trembled in spite of his previous bravado. He stared into the dark poison, a flurry of emotions passing over his young face before he gingerly tipped it against his lips. When the chalice lowered and returned to Duncan, they were stark black against his ashen face, making him look like some ghoulish wraith.

Rory held her breath, but it didn't take long for his agonized scream to fill the night and raise the hair on her neck. He clutched at his throat as he doubled over and sank to the ground, the scream morphing into a gargling wheeze. "Maker's breath!" Ser Jory gasped, watching with horrified disgust as the thief's skin became greyed and mottled, the dark brown of his eyes drowned out by sightless white.

With a final, wet rattle of his throat, Daveth's body went limp on the stone.

"I am sorry, Daveth." The eldest Warden said with soft lament before he turned to the shivering knight. "Step forward, Jory."

His greatsword was being unsheathed, his armor scraping the stone as he scrambled away. "But I have a wife, a child. Had I known-"

Duncan held out the chalice, his dark face menacing. His steps were calm, deliberate, as he trapped the frightened man against the wall. "There is no turning back."

"No! You ask too much. Th-there is no glory in this!" He cried, and lifted his sword as though he were a child too small to handle it. Using just a single hand, the Warden released his dagger, swiftly catching a wild swing and plunging it into Ser Jory's abdommen before he might attempt another.

"I am sorry." He said again, his head bowed. He pulled the dagger free and stepped away, his shining armor and white robes scarlet with blood, and watched with heavy pity as the knight crumpled to the ground, a vivid pool instantly swelling beneath him. "But the Joining is not yet complete." Slowly he turned his head, hawkish eyes ensnaring wide, pale grey ones, and moved slowly, almost reluctantly, toward Rory. He reached for her gloved hand, closing it around the stem of the goblet. "You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good. From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden."

Rory held his gaze before it was finally drawn to the rippling concoction. She felt her jaw clench until it hurt.

"Sod it all." She snarled, and greedily gulped down what remained. Thin rivulets of blood tickled her throat as it dripped over the corners of her mouth, but she barely noticed when the vile blackness coated her tongue and made her shudder with revulsion. Still, she didn't stop until every last drop was gone.

"Ugh. Rory, there's such a thing as over doing it, you know." Alistair groaned, looking utterly green by the time she finally dropped the goblet with a clatter. She breathed like a winded bull, feet rooted into the earth and body waiting for death.

But it never came. The powerful urge to vomit certainly did, as did the feeling she was going to be squatting in the woods until her legs fell asleep later that night, but...nothing more. Alistair and Duncan moved away, watching her closely.

She released a trembling breath. "I...nothing's happening... I feel-"

She gasped sharply when the dizziness crashed into her, the forms of the two men now swirling shapes and blurring colors. She felt herself stumble away, and her arms flailed wildly as she tried to grab a hand she thought might be Alistair's. Then pain - pain like she'd never felt before, pain that no blade or arrow piercing her flesh could ever recreate consumed her. It burned in her core before suddenly fanning out, covering every inch with a fire so hot it almost burned cold.

"Rory, it's alright!" She heard someone shout. It was faint and far away, but...oddly relieved. Duncan? No, Duncan never shouted like that. She felt herself hit the ground several seconds after she actually did so, pain thumping through her like a heart beat, the fever climbing ever higher. There was a wetness on her face she assumed was sweat, but it just as easily could have been tears. The voices grew fainter and more distant, the pitches changing and the tones softening. Her brow creased.

Wait. This was a different voice. One she knew, but it was...strange. It was barely a voice at all, though it spoke words as a voice does. It was like an echo from some dream she had in childhood.

"It's alright, pup. It's alright. Sleep now." It was saying, warm and gentle, soothing the fever and cradling her face in a loving embrace. "You did well, pup. I'm so proud."

And when her eyes drifted shut, when the blackness finally swallowed her, the monstrous roar shook her frame and seized her heart in a crushing, clawed grip. Flashing red eyes were all she could see, and the darkness took her under like a powerful wave takes a ship. Her mind told her to thrash and struggle, but her body didn't so much as twitch.

She was trapped, and all she could do was scream. So she did.

She screamed until sleep claimed her.

* * *

Shadows shifted and swirled across her eyelids before she realized they had faces. She willed the lines to stop dancing, sluggishly forming familiar features that flooded with relief.

"It is finished. Welcome." A deep, ragged voice spoke first, one she remembered was Duncan's. Belatedly, she became aware that he was trying to help her up.

Once standing, a wave of blood rushed into her head and pitched her backwards. The sound of armor crashing together met her first, the feeling of arms wrapped around her middle struggling to catch up. Alistair steadied her, his honey gold eyes watching her warily. "Two more deaths. In my Joining, only one of us died. But it was horrible. I'm glad at least one of you made it through."

"How do you feel?" The elder Warden inquired, his hand warming her arm.

"The pain…that was…and then the voices...and.. I'm fine." Rory mumbled groggily, blinking hard several times in an attempt to make her vision stop swimming.

She wasn't sure, but she could have sworn she heard Duncan chuckle quietly. "Such is what it takes to become a Grey Warden."

"Did you have dreams?" Alistair piped up. "I had terrible dreams after my Joining."

She opened her mouth to speak, but Duncan beat her to it. "Such dreams comes when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do. That and many other things can be explained in the months to come."

"Before I forget, there is one last part to your Joining. We take some of that blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us of those who...didn't make it this far." Carefully Alistair placed it in her waiting hand, and she found the cool glass on her palm brought her senses into sharper clarity. It was no bigger than a gold coin, a round, smooth cut of glass with the remains of dark blood swirling inside, delicate veins of polished silver caged around it and fastened to a fine, silver chain. It was a beautiful gift, even she had to admit that.

She slipped it over her head and tucked it under her breastplate and shirt, the slow heating of glass and metal on her skin making her gut clench. It was only then she realized Daveth and Ser Jory's bodies had been cleared away, the stain of blood the knight left behind the only evidence of what took place. She blinked in surprise.

How long had she been out?

Duncan followed her line of sight, and patted her shoulder to lure her focus back to him. "Take some time. When you are ready, I'd like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king." The guarded regret in his eyes wasn't missed, so she figured it best she not corner him about Ser Jory's fate. Daveth's words 'Wardens do what they must' chanted over and over in her ears, almost scathingly.

"Very well." She sighed.

"The meeting is to the west down the stairs. Please attend as soon as you are able." He turned to leave the younger pair, but stopped short. "Perhaps you can check if the Quartermaster has finished with your armor."

Her nod was numb and detached. "Yeah. Good idea."

"See that he makes it over there safely, Alistair."

A presence emitting sharp waves of warmth made itself known after a lapse in time. She blinked rapidly in mild alarm, seeing Duncan had already disappeared and left her and Alistair alone. "What...what the-"

"You'll get used to that after a little while." He said through a weak grin. "The first couple of weeks are the hardest. You have random attacks of forgetfulness a lot, like you've lost small chunks of time with no explanation. It all kind of starts to blur together after awhile."

"Oh." Was all she could really say. His hand was on her shoulder and burning her skin as he steered her towards the encampment. She shrugged it away once they'd made it to flat, stable ground. "Why are you so warm? You make me sweat just standing there."

"Your body's still trying to process the blood. You'll have a bit of a fever for a few hours. Makes your skin really sensitive and achy, kind of like when you have a bad cold.

"Lovely." She muttered darkly. "Tell me, is being a Grey Warden always this fun? Surely we can't be all parties and merriment **all the time**."

"You'd think it would be exhausting after awhile, right?" The templar chortled back. "But in all seriousness, it is going to be hard. At least, for the first few weeks. But you're pretty tough. I think you'll be okay."

"Oh stop, you're making me blush." She deadpanned.

"So chipper. You need to calm down, Rory. Next thing you know, you'll be vomiting rainbows."

She groaned, patting her stomach as it gurgled noisily. "I'll be vomiting something soon enough." Already she could feel the bile burning her throat.

"Yeeeeah, about that. Might want to start eating a lot of bread every chance you get. Comes up the easiest. Oh, and avoid anything with lard. Particularly bacon."

Without thinking, Rory whirled on her heels and grabbed his sleeves in a white-knuckled grip. The spike of panic made her wide eyes shine as she shook him violently. "You have **got** to be **shitting me**. No bacon? No lard? What's next? What the sodding sod is wrong with you sodding...sods!"

Gingerly he pried her hands off and began to back away, his grin sheepish. "Easy there, fella. It's all temporary, I'm sure you can survive a few days without- Oh, look! The Quartermaster!" And with that, away the fair-haired templar dashed towards the Warden encampment, a single arm swinging wildly in what the dumbstruck redhead assumed to be a wave. "ByeRorygottagogoodluck!"

"Alistair! Alistair, you get your scrawny, Chantry ass back here, or I swear I'll-!" All at once the air in her lungs rushed out, leaving her with a deep scowl and heavy, drooping shoulders. Glancing to her left, she found the aforementioned Quartermaster blinking rapidly in alarm.

They held an awkward, silent stare for an unreasonably long time before he spoke. "Uh...here for your armor, lad?"

Rory ran a hand through her hair and sighed before trudging toward him. "Yes. Don't ask."

"I have the distinct feeling that it would be an incredibly bad idea if I did." He laughed, and stooped down to fish something out of a chest. The dull gleam of steel flickered in the torchlight, bringing a brief wave of peace over her. A wave that died the instant a foul tasting burp made itself known. Luckily, the Quartermaster didn't seem to notice, for he was too busy gathering the other pieces of the set.

"Took me awhile to tweak the breastplate like you wanted, but the overall set was easy to reinforce." She took the piece from his hands as he explained and examined it closely. The twin ferns of her family crest had been transformed into the fiery wings of a phoenix, the body of which had been etched in the space between. It was a bit rushed, this she could see, but it was skillfully done all the same. The armor itself felt slightly heavier than it had when she'd turned it over to him just yesterday. "Good armor, that is. Where in the world did you get it?"

"I found it." Rory bit her lip, running her hand over the crest and dusting away the tiny shavings of steel that remained. It wasn't exactly a lie - she did indeed find it. Of course, he didn't need to know that she 'found' it in the treasury while she and her mother were frantically navigating through their blazing home in search of her father. Those were details, and details bored people. At least, that's what she kept telling herself.

But, hey, she wasn't lying.

"Right." The Quartermaster drawled skeptically. "Of course you did. Which is why you insisted I change the crest."

"Exactly." She replied flatly.

"Right. Though I have to ask, why a phoenix?"

Rory shrugged, piling the remaining pieces on top of the breastplate. "Because reasons. Thanks again."

He simply shook his head as she turned to go, and called out, "you're a strange lad, but good luck to you all the same!"

Rory wandered to the darkest edge of camp she could find, which turned out to be the area designated for the Circle of Magi. Only the blank faces of the Tranquil greeted her as she passed, so it was safe to assume the mages had already moved to their respective contingents. She stopped in the shadow of a great tree, her only audience being the ivy-covered walls that separated her from miles of vast forest, and stripped as quickly as she could. It was easy to ignore the rolling sickness in her stomach, especially after she cut the bandages binding her breasts and gulped down lungfuls of cold. In fact, it almost disappeared entirely when she realized how difficult it had been to breathe before. The winter air felt wonderful on her fevered skin, and for a moment she was content with standing in only her breeches.

Suddenly a sharp sting on her shoulder blade made her hiss. She cursed under her breath, gently feeling along the scratches on her back, her nails scratching off bits of dried blood as it went. In all this excitement over the Joining and the subsequent queasiness that came with it, she'd completely forgotten about the injuries she acquired in the Wilds. Her wrist hooked over her shoulder with a long sigh. "Seriously, enough with the parties, guys."

"What on earth are you doing?" She heard an amused voice call out behind her.

She couldn't scramble back into her tunic and chain shirt fast enough. "Nothing! What? No! Wait...go away! I'm naked! ...Wait, no I'm not, but sod off anyway!"

The slight figure of a woman met her eyes when she finally pushed her arms and head through the correct holes after several unsuccessful attempts. It was too dark to discern any features, but she wore no armor as far as Rory could tell. Must've been a mage, then.

"Don't take that tone of voice with me." The figure snapped back. "Grey Warden or no, you will remember your manners when speaking to an elder."

"Yes, ma'm." Rory replied instantly, stricken with a fear misbehaving children everywhere knew intimately. Honestly, this woman, whoever she was, could have given her own mother a run for her money.

"That's better. As I was saying, what are you doing? Shouldn't you be joining the others?" Her tone was accusing, but utterly unsurprised, giving Rory the impression she wasn't the first person this woman had caught skulking around at night.

"Don't worry, I wasn't deserting." Rory reassured as she clumsily strapped her greaves to her legs. "I was just changing. The, uh, other soldiers were being...soldiers."

"Ah, you must be the new recruit then." The mage chuckled knowingly. Her apparent age made it sound more like a cough.

"For crying out loud..." The redhead groaned, her head sinking into her palm. "Yes. I'm the...girly one."

"So I see. Well, so long as you aren't the deserting one..." She shifted her weight and turned to leave. "Regardless, you'd best hurry. The Wardens are moving into place soon." The relief that began to ease Rory's shoulders plummeted when she called back, "though, you might want to invest in some well-placed socks before you go, dear!"

She didn't even get the chance to demand an explanation for that comment. Instead, her body chose that exact moment to throw up on an ant hill.


End file.
